*,     ' 


-A  4 


i 


THE  BOX  OF  GOD 


BY   LEW    SARETT 
MANY  MANY  MOONS 


THE  BOX  OF  GOD 


BY 

LEW  SARETT 

Author  of  "Many  Many  Moons" 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  &  COMPANY 
1922 


COPYRIGHT,    1922,  BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

Printed  September,  1922 


Printed  in  U.  S.  A. 


TO 

MY  FATHER  AND  MY  MOTHER 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

For  the  privilege  of  including  in  this  book  the 
title-poem,  "The  Box  of  God",  the  author  is  in 
debted  to  the  courtesy  of  the  editors  of  Poetry: 
A  Magazine  of  Verse.  For  permission  to  include 
many  of  the  remaining  poems  in  the  volume,  the 
author  is  grateful  to  the  editors  of  the  following : 
the  North  American  Review;  the  Bookman;  Con 
temporary  Verse;  Adventure  Magazine;  the 
Lyric  West;  American  Boy;  Midland  Magazine; 
Voices:  A  Journal  of  Verse;  the  New  York  Sun; 
the  Boston  Transcript;  American  Forestry;  the 
Liberator;  the  Broom. 

L.  S. 


CONTENTS 

PART  I 
THE  BOX  OF  GOD 

PAGE 

THE  Box  OF  GOD 3 

I.     BROKEN  BIRD 3 

II.    WHISTLING  WINGS 9 

III.    TALKING  WATERS 17 

PART  II 

GREEN  ALTARS 

WIND  IN  THE  PINE 21 

TETON  MOUNTAIN 22 

MESA-MIST 23 

THE  RED  DRAGOON 24 

DUST 27 

SWEETWATER   RANGE 2Q 

LEAVE  ME  TO  MY  OWN 31 

MARCHING  PINES 33 

YELLOW  MOON 34 

TIMBER-LINE  CEDAR 35 

WHOOPING  CRANE 37 

LET  ME  FLOWER  As  I  WILL 38 

OCTOBER  SNOW 40 

INDIAN  SUMMER 41 

ix 


x  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

DROUTH 43 

FISHER  OF  STARS 44 

ALKALI  POOL 46 

OLD  OAK 47 

LOOK  FOR  ME 48 


PART  III 
RED  GODS 

THUNDERDRUMS 53 

I.    THE  DRUMMERS  SING 53 

II.    DOUBLE-BEAR  DANCES 54 

III.  JUMPING-RIVER  DANCES 55 

IV.  GHOST-WOLF  DANCES 56 

V.    IRON-WIND  DANCES 57 

VI.    THE  DRUMMERS  SING 58 

INDIAN  SLEEP-SONG 59 

To  A  DEAD  PEMBINA  WARRIOR 61 

MEDALS  AND  HOLES 63 

FIRE-BENDER  TALKS 66 

MAPLE-SUGAR  CHANT    ..,.„...  69 

APPENDIX  ....«»    *    •    •    «    •     -75 


THE   BOX   OF   GOD 


The  Helen  Haire  Levinson  Prize  was  awarded  to 
the  poem,  "THE  Box  OF  GOD,"  as  the  best  contribution 
to  Poetry:  a  Magazine  of  Verse,  for  the  year  1921. 


PART  I 

THE  BOX  OF  GOD 


IN  THE  LAND  OF  K*TCHEE-GAH-MEE 

Lake  Superior 
Flute-reed  River 
Rainy  Lake 
Lake-of-the-woods 


THE  BOX  OF  GOD 

i :   BROKEN  BIRD 

O  broken  bird, 

Whose  whistling  silver  wings  have  known  the  lift 

Of  high  mysterious  hands,  and  the  wild  sweet  music 

Of  big  winds  among  the  ultimate  stars ! — 
(The  black  robed  cures  put  your  pagan  Indian 
ISoul  in  their  white  man's  House  of  God,  to  lay 

Upon  your  pagan  lips  new  songs,  to  swell 

The  chorus  of  amens  and  hallelujahs. 

In  simple  faith  and  holy  zeal,  they  flung 

Aside  the  altar-tapestries,  that  you 

Might  know  the  splendor  of  God's  handiwork, 

The  shining  glory  of  His  face.    O  eagle, 

Crippled  of  pinion,  clipped  of  soaring  wing, 

They  brought  you  to  a  four-square  box  of  God;    _jf?f  <AjLc* 

And  they  left  you  there  to  flutter  against  the  bars 

In  futile  flying,  to  beat  against  the  gates, 

To  droop,  to  dream  a  little,  and  to  die. 

Ah,  Joe  Shing-6b — by  the  sagamores  revered 
As  Spruce,  the  Conjurer,  by  the  black-priests  dubbed 
The  Pagan  Joe — how  dearly  I  recall 
Your  conversion  in  the  Big-Knife's  House  of  God, 
Your  wonder  when  you  faced  its  golden  glories. 
Don't  you  remember  ? — when  first  you  sledged  from  out 

3 


BOX  OF  GOD 

The  frozen  Valley  of  the  Sleepy-eye, 
And  hammered  on  the  gates  of  Fort  Brazeau — 
To  sing  farewell  to  Ah-nah-quod,  the  Cloud, 
Sleeping,  banked  high  with  flowers,  clothed  in  the  pomp 
Of  white  man's  borrowed  garments  in  the  church? 
Oh,  how  your  heart,  as  a  child's  heart  beating  before 
High  wonder-workings,  thrilled  at  the   burial   splen 
dor  !— 

The  coffin,  shimmering-black  as  moonlit  ice, 
And  gleaming  in  a  ring  of  waxen  tapers ; 
After  the  chant  of  death,  the  long  black  robes, 
Blown  by  the  wind  and  winding  over  the  hills 
With   slow   black   songs   to   the   marked-out-place-of- 

death; 

The  solemn  feet  that  moved  along  the  road 
Behind  the  wagon-with-windows,  the  wagon-of-death, 
With  its  jingling  silver  harness,  its  dancing  plumes. 
Oh,  the  shining  splendor  of  that  burial  march, 
The  round-eyed  wonder  of  the  village  throng ! — 
And  oh,  the  fierce-hot  hunger,  the  burning  envy 
That  seared  your  soul  when  you  beheld  your  friend 
Achieve  such  high  distinction  from  the  black-robes ! 

And  later,  when  the  cavalcade  of  priests 

Wound  down  from  the  fenced-in-ground,  like  a  slow 

black  worm 

Crawling  upon  the  snow — don't  you  recall? — 
The  meeting  in  the  mission? — that  night,  your  first 
In  the  white  man's  lodge  of  holy-medicine? 
How  clearly  I  can  see  your  hesitant  step 
On  the  threshold  of  the  church;  within  the  door 


BROKEN  BIRD  « 

Your  gasp  of  quick  surprise,  your  breathless  mouth ; 
Your  eyes  round-white  before  the  glimmering  taper, 
The  gold-filigreed  censer,  the  altar  hung 
With  red  rosettes  and  velvet  soft  as  an  otter's 
Pelt  in  the  frost  of  autumn,  with  tinsel  sparkling 
Like  cold  blue  stars  above  the  frozen  snows. 
Oh,  the  blinding  beauty  of  that  House  of  God ! — 
Even  the  glittering  bar  at  Jock  McKay's, 
Tinkling  with  goblets  of  fiery  devil's-spit, 
With  dazzling  vials  and  many-looking  mirrors, 
Seemed  lead  against  the  silver  of  the  mission. 

I  hear  again  the  chanting  holy-men, 

The  agents  of  the  white  man's  Mighty  Spirit, 

Making  their  talks  with  strong,  smooth-moving  tongues 

"Hear !  Hear  ye,  men  of  a  pagan  faith ! 
Forsake  the  idols  of  the  heathen  fathers, 
The  too-many  ghosts  that  walk  upon  the  earth; 
For  there  lie  pain  and  sorrow,  yea,  and  death! 

"Hear!  Hear  ye,  men  of  a  pagan  faith! 
And  grasp  the  friendly  hands  we  offer  you 
In  kindly  fellowship,  warm  hands  and  tender, 
Yea,  hands  that  ever  give  and  never  take. 
Forswear  the  demon-charms  of  medicine  men; 
Shatter  the  drums  of  conjuring  Chee-sah-kee — 
Yea,  beyond  these  walls  lie  bitterness  and  death ! 

"Pagans ! — ye  men  of  a  bastard  birth ! — bend ; 
Bow  ye,  proud  heads,  before  this  hallowed  shrine! 


6  THE  BOX  OF  GOD 

Break! — break  ye  the  knee  beneath  this  roof, 
For  within  this  house  lives  God !    Abide  ye  here ! 
Here  shall  your  eyes  behold  His  wizardry; 
Here  shall  ye  find  an  everlasting  peace." 

Ah,  Joe  the  pagan,  son  of  a  bastard  people, 

Child  of  a  race  of  vanquished,  outlawed  children, 

Small  wonder  that  you  drooped  your  weary  head, 

Blinding  your  eyes  to  the  suns  of  elder  days ; 

For  hungry  bellies  look  for  new  fat  gods, 

And  heavy  heads  seek  newer,  softer  pillows. 

With  you  again  I  hear  the  eerie  chants 

Floating  from  out  the  primal  yesterdays — 

The  low  sweet  song  of  the  doctor's  flute,  the  slow 

Resonant  boom  of  the  basswood  water-drum, 

The  far  voice  of  the  fathers,  calling,  calling. 

I  see  again  the  struggle  in  your  eyes — 

The  hunted  soul  of  a  wild  young  grouse,  afraid, 

Trembling  beneath  maternal  wings,  yet  lured 

By  the  shrill  whistle  of  the  wheeling  hawk. 

I  see  your  shuffling  limbs,  hesitant,  faltering 

Along  the  aisle — the  drag  of  old  bronzed  hands 

Upon  your  moccasined  feet,  the  forward  tug 

Of  others,  soft  and  white,  and  very  tender ; 

One  forward  step  .  .  .  another  ...  a  quick  look  back  !- 

Another  step  .  .  .  another  .  .  .  and  lo!  the  eyes 

Flutter  and  droop  before  a  flaming  symbol, 

The  strong  knees  break  before  a  blazoned  altar 

Glimmering  its  tapestries  in  the  candle-light, 

The  high  head  beaten  down  and  bending  before 

New  wonder-working  images  of  gold. 


BROKEN  BIRD  7 

And  thus  the  black-robes  brought  you  into  the  house 
Wherein  they  kept  their  God,  a  house  of  logs, 
Square-hewn,  and  thirty  feet  by  forty.    They  strove 
To  put  before  you  food  and  purple  trappings — 
Oh,  how  they  walked  you  up  and  down  in  the  vestry 
Proudly  resplendent  in  your  white  man's  raiment, 
Glittering  and  gorgeous,  the  envy  of  your  tribe: 
Your  stiff  silk  hat,  your  scarlet  sash,  your  shoes 
Shining  and  squeaking  gloriously  with  newness ! 
Yet  even  unto  the  end — those  blood-stained  nights 
Ofjjie  sickness-on-the-lung ;  that  bitter  day 
On  the  Barking-rock,  when  I  packed  you  down  from 

camp 

At  Split-hand  Falls  to  the  fort  at  Sleepy-eye ; 
While,  drop  by  drop,  your  life  went  trickling  out, 
As  sugar-sap  that  drips  on  the  birch-bark  bucket 
And  finally  chills  in  the  withered  maple  heart 
At  frozen  dusk :  even  unto  the  end — 
When  the  mission  doctor,  framed  by  guttering  candles, 
Hollowly  tapped  his  hooked-horn  finger  here 
And  there  upon  your  bony  breast,  like  a  wood-bird 
Pecking  and  drumming  on  a  rotten  trunk — 
Even  unto  this  end  I  never  knew 
Which  part  of  you  was  offering  the  holy  prayers — 
The  chanting  mouth,  or  the  eyes  that  gazed  beyond 
The  walls  to  a  far  land  of  windy  valleys. 
And  sometimes,  when  your  dry  slow  lips  were  moving 
To  perfumed  psalms,  I  could  almost,  almost  see 
Your  pagan  soul  aleap  in  the  fire-light,  naked, 
Shuffling  along  to  booming  medicine-drums, 
Shaking  the  flat  black  earth  with  moccasined  feet, 


8  THE  BOX  OF  GOD 

Dancing  again — back  among  the  jangling 

Bells  and  the  stamping  legs  of  gnarled  old  men — 

Back  to  the  fathers  calling,  calling  across 

Dead  winds  from  the  dim  gray  years. 

O  high-flying  eagle, 

Whose  soul,  wheeling  among  the  sinuous  winds, 
Has  known  the  molten  glory  of  the  sun, 
The  utter  calm  of  dusk,  and  in  the  evening 
The  lullabies  of  moonlit  mountain  waters! — 
The  black-priests  locked  you  in  their  House  of  God, 
Behind  great  gates  swung  tight  against  the  frightened 
Quivering  aspens,  whispering  perturbed  in  council, 
And  muttering  as  they  tapped  with  timid  fists 
Upon  the  doors  and  strove  to  follow  you 
And  hold  you ;  tight  against  the  uneasy  winds 
Wailing  among  the  balsams,  fumbling  upon 
The  latch  with  fretful  fingers;  tight  against 
The  crowding  stars  who  pressed  their  troubled  faces 
Against  the  windows.     In  honest  faith  and  zeal, 
The  black-robes  put  you  in  a  box  of  God, 
To  swell  the  broken  chorus  of  amens 
And  hallelujahs ;  to  flutter  against  the  door, 
Crippled  of  pinion,  bruised  of  head ;  to  beat 
With  futile  flying  against  the  gilded  bars ; 
To  droop,  to  dream  a  little,  and  to  die. 


ii :  WHISTLING  WINGS 

Shing-6b,  companion  of  my  old  wild  years 

In  the  land  of  K'tchee-gah-mee,  my  good  right  arm 

When  we  battled  bloody-fisted  in  the  storms 

And  snows  with  rotting  scurvy,  with  hunger  raw 

And  ravenous  as  the  lusting  tongues  of  wolves — 

My  Joe,  no  longer  will  the  ghostly  mountains 

Echo  your  red-lunged  laughters  in  the  night; 

The  gone  lone  days  when  we  communed  with  God 

In  the  language  of  the  waterfall  and  wind 

Have  vanished  with  your  basswood  water-drum. 

Do  you  recall  our  cruise  to  Flute-reed  Falls? 
Our  first  together — oh,  many  moons  ago — 
Before  the  cures  built  the  village  mission? 
How,  banked  against  our  camp-fire  in  the  bush 
Of  sugar-maples,  we  smoked  kin-nik-kin-nik, 
And  startled  the  somber  buttes  with  round  raw  songs, 
With  wails  that  mocked  the  lynx  who  cried  all  night 
As  if  her  splitting  limbs  were  torn  with  pain 
Of  a  terrible  new  litter?    How  we  talked 
Till  dawn  of  the  Indian's  Keetch-ie  Ma-ni-do, 
The  Mighty  Spirit,  and  of  the  white  man's  God? — 
Don't  you  remember  dusk  at  Cold-spring  Hollow  ? — 
The  beaver-pond  at  our  feet,  its  ebony  pool 
Wrinkled  wih  silver,  placid,  calm  as  death, 
Save  for  the  fitful  chug  of  the  frog  that  flopped 

9 


io  THE  BOX  OF  GOD 

His  yellow  jowls  upon  the  lily-pad, 
And  the  quick  wet  slap  of  the  tails  of  beaver  hurrying 
Homeward  across  the  furrowing  waters,  laden 
With  cuttings  of  tender  poplar  .  .  .  down  in  the  swale 
The  hermit-thrush  who  spilled  his  rivulet 
Of  golden  tones  into  the  purple  seas 
Of  gloam  among  the  swamps  .  .  .  and  in  the  East, 
Serene  against  the  sky — do  you  remember? — 
Slumbering  Mont  du  Pere,  shouldering  its  crags 
Through    crumpled    clouds,    rose-flushed    with    after 
glow  .  .  . 

And  dew-lidded  dusk  that  slipped  among  the  valleys 
Soft  as  a  blue  wolf  walking  in  thick  wet  moss. 
How  we  changed  our  ribald  song  for  simple  talk !  .  .  . 

"My  frien',  Ah-deek,  you  ask-uin  plenty  hard  question: 
Ugh!  w'ere  Keetch-ie  Md-ni-do  he  live? 
Were  all  dose  Eenzhun  spirits  walk  and  talk? 
Me — /  dunno!  .  .  .  Mebbe  .  .  .  mebbe  over  here, 
In  beaver-pond,  in  t'rush,  in  gromping  bullfrog; 
Mebbe  over  dere,  he's  sleeping  in  dose  mountain.  .  .  . 

Sh-sh-sh!  .  .  .  Look! — over  dere — look,  my  frien' ! 
On  Mont  du  Pere — he's  moving  little!  .  .  .  ain't f 
Under  dose  soft  blue  blanket  she's  falling  down 
On  hill  and  valley!     Somebody — somebody's  dere! 
In  dose  hill  of  Mont  du  Pere,  sleeping  .  .  .  sleep- 
ing  .  .  ." 

And  when  the  fingers  of  the  sun,  lingering, 
Slipped  gently  from  the  marble  brow  of  the  glacier 


WHISTLING  WINGS  11 

Pillowed  among  the  clouds,  blue-veined  and  cool, 
How,  one  by  one,  like  lamps  that  flicker  up 
In  a  snow-bound  hamlet  in  the  valley,  the  stars 
Lighted  their  candles  mirrored  in  the  waters  .  .  . 
And  floating  from  the  hills  of  Sleepy-eye, 
Soft  as  the  wings  of  dusty-millers  flying, 
The  fitful  syllables  of  the  Baptism  River 
Mumbling  among  its  caverns  hollowly, 
Shouldering  its  emerald  sweep  through  cragged  cas 
cades 

In  a  flood  of  wafted  foam,  fragile,  flimsy 
As  luna-moths  fluttering  on  a  pool  .  .  . 

"You  hear  dat,  Caribou?  .  .  .  somebody's  dere!  .  .  . 
Ain't? — in  dose  hills  of  Mont  du  Pere — sleeping. 
Sh-sh-sh!    You  hear  dose  far  'way  Flute-reed  Falls  ? 
Somebody's  dere  in  Mont  du  Pere,  sleeping  .  .  . 
Somebody  he's  in  dere  de  whole  night  long  .  .  . 
And  w'ile  he's  sleep,  he's  talking  little  .  .  .  talk" 
ing  .  .  ." 

Hush ! — don't  you  hear  K'tchee-gah-mee  at  midnight  ? — 
That  stretched  far  out  from  the  banks  of  Otter-slide 
To  the  dim  wet  rim  of  the  world — North,  East,  West? — 
The  Big-water,  calm,  thick-flecked  with  the  light  of 

stars 

As  the  wind-riffled  fur  of  silver  fox  in  winter  .  .  . 
The  shuffle  of  the  sands  in  the  lapsing  tide  .  .  . 
The  slow  soft  wash  of  waters  on  the  pebbles  .  .  . 

"Sh-sh-sh!  .  .  .  Look  Ah-deek!—on  K'tchee-gah-mee! 


12  THE  BOX  OF  GOD 

Somebody — something  he's  in  dere  .  .  .  ain't?  .  . 
He's  sleep  w'ere  black  Big-water  she's  deep  .  .  .  Ho! 
In  morning  he's  jump  up  from  hees  bed  and  race 
Wit'  de  wind;  tonight  he's  sleeping  .  .  .  rolling  little — 
Dreaming  about  hees  woman  .  .  .  rolling  .  .  .  sleep- 
ing  .  .  .» 

And  later — you  recall? — beyond  the  peaks 

That  tusked  the  sky  like  fangs  of  a  coyote  snarling, 

The  full-blown  mellow  moon  that  floated  up 

Like  a  liquid-silver  bubble  from  the  waters, 

Serenely,  till  she  pricked  her  delicate  film 

On  the  slender  splinter  of  a  cloud,  melted, 

And  trickled  from  the  silver-dripping  edges. 

Oh,  the  splendor  of  that  night !  .  .  .  the  Twin-fox  stars 

That  loped  across  the  pine-ridge  .  .  .  Red  Ah-niing, 

Blazing  from  out  the  cavern  of  the  gloom 

Like  the  smouldering  coal  in  the  eye  of  carcajou  .  .  . 

The  star-dust  in  the  valley  of  the  sky, 

Flittering  like  glow-worms  in  a  reedy  meadow !  .   .   . 

"Somebody's  dere  .  .  .  He's  walk-um  in  dose  cloud  .  .  . 
You  see-um?  Look!  He's  mak'-um  for  hees  woman 
De  w'ile  she  sleep,  dose  t'ing  she  want-um  most — 
Blue  dress  for  dancing!  You  see,  my  frien'f  .  .  . 

ain't? 

He's  Growing  on  de  blanket  of  dose  sky 
Dose  plenty-plenty  handfuls  of  w'ite  stars; 
He's  sewing  on  dose  plenty  teet'  of  elk, 
Dose  shiny  looking-glass  and  plenty  beads. 
Somebody's  dere  .  .  .  somet'ing  he's  in  dere  .  .  ." 


WHISTLING  WINGS  13 

Thus  the  green  moons  went — and  many  many  winters. 

Yet  we  held  together,  Joe,  until  our  day 

Of  falling  leaves,  like  two  split  sticks  of  bur-oak 

Lashed  tight  with  buckskin  buried  in  the  bark. 

Do  you  recollect  our  last  long  cruise  together, 

To  Hollow-bear,  on  our  line  of  marten-traps? — 

When  cold  Bee-boan,  the  Winter-maker,  hurdling 

The  rim-rock  ridge,  shook  out  his  snowy  hair 

Before  him  on  the  wind  and  heaped  up  the  hollows  ? — 

Flanked  by  the  drifts,  our  lean-to  of  toboggans, 

Our  bed  of  pungent  balsam,  soft  as  down 

From  the  bosom  of  a  whistling  swan  in  autumn  .  .  . 

Our  steaming  sledge-dogs  buried  in  the  snow-bank, 

Nuzzling  their  snouts  beneath  their  tented  tails, 

And  dreaming  of  the  paradise  of  dogs  .  .  . 

Our  fire  of  pine-boughs  licking  up  the  snow, 

And  tilting  at  the  shadows  in  the  coulee  .  .  . 

And  you,  rolled  warm  among  the  beaver-pelts, 

Forgetful  of  your  sickness-on-the-lung, 

Of  the  fever-pains  and  coughs  that  racked  your  bones — 

You,  beating  a  war  song  on  your  drum, 

And  laughing  as  the  scarlet-moccasined  flames 

Danced  on  the  coals  and  billowed  up  the  sky. 

Don't  you  remember  ?  ...  the  snowflakes  drifting  down 

Thick  as  the  falling  petals  of  wild  plums  .  .  . 

The  clinker-ice  and  the  scudding  fluff  of  the  whirlpool 

Muffling  the  summer-mumblings  of  the  brook  .  .  . 

The  turbulent  waterfall  protesting  against 

Such  early  winter-sleep,  like  a  little  boy 

Who  struggles  with  the  calamity  of  slumber, 


14  THE  BOX  OF  GOD 

Knuckling  his  leaden  lids  and  his  tingling  nose 
With  a  pudgy  fist,  and  fretfully  flinging  back 
His  snowy  covers  with  his  petulant  fingers. 
Out  on  the  windy  barrens  restless  bands 
Of  caribou,  rumped  up  against  the  gale, 
Suddenly  breaking  before  the  rabid  blast, 
Scampering  off  like  tumbleweeds  in  a  cyclone  .  .  . 
The  low  of  bulls  from  the  hills  where  worried  moose, 
Nibbling  the  willows,  the  wintergreens,  the  birches, 
Were  yarding  up  in  the  sheltering  alder-thicket  .  .  . 
From  the  cedar  wind-break,  the  bleat  of  calves  wedged 

warm 

Against  the  bellies  of  their  drowsy  cows  .  .  . 
And  then  the  utter  calm  .  .  .  the  wide  white  drift 
That  lay  upon  the  world  as  still  and  ghastly 
As  the  winding-sheet  of  death  .  .  .  the  sudden  snap 
Of  a  dry  twig  .  .  .  the  groan  of  sheeted  rivers 
Beating  with  naked  hands  upon  the  ice  ... 
The  brooding  night  .  .  .  the  crackle  of  cold  skies  .  .  . 

"Sh-sh-sh!  .  .  .  Look,  my  frien' — somebody's  dere! 
Ain't?  .  .  .  over  dere?     He's  come  from  Land-of- 

Winter! 

Wit'  quilt  he's  cover-um  up  dose  baby  mink, 
Dose  cub,  dose  wild  arbutus,  dose  jump-up- Johnny  . . . 
He's  keep  hees  chil'ens  warm  for  long,  long  winter  . . . 
Sh-sh-sh!  .  .  .  Somebody's  dere  on  de  w'ite  savanne! 
Somebody's  dere!  .  .  .  He's  walk-um  in  de  timber  .  .  . 
He's  cover-um  up  hees  chil'ens,  soft  .  .  .  soft  .  .  ." 

And  later,  when  your  bird-claw  fingers  rippled 


WHISTLING  WINGS  15 

Over  the  holes  of  your  cedar  Bee-bee-gwun 
Mellowly  in  a  tender  tune,  how  the  stars, 
Like  little  children  trooping  from  their  teepees, 
Danced  with  their  nimble  feet  across  the  sky 
To  the  running-water  music  of  your  flute  .  .  . 
And  how,  with  twinkling  heels  they  scurried  off 
Before  the  Northern  Light  swaying,  twisting, 
Spiralling  like  a  slender  silver  smoke 
On  the  thin  blue  winds,  and  feeling  out  among 
The  frightened  starry  children  of  the  sky  .  .  . 

"Look! — in  de  Land-of -Winter — soniet'ing's  dere! 
Somebody — he's  reaching  out  hees  hand! — for  me! 
Ain't?  .  .  .  For  me  he's  waiting.    Somebody's  dere! 
Somebody  he's  in  dere,  waiting  .  .  .  waiting  .  .  ." 

Don't  you  remember? — the  ghostly  silence,  splintered 

At  last  by  a  fist  that  cracked  the  hoary  birch, 

By  a  swift  black  fist  that  shattered  the  brittle  air, 

Splitting  it  into  a  million  frosty  fragments  .  .  . 

And  dreary  Northwind,  coughing  in  the  snow, 

Spitting  among  the  glistening  sheeted  pines, 

And  moaning  on  the  barrens  among  the  bones 

Of  gaunt  white  tamaracks  mournful  and  forlorn  .  .  . 

<(Sh-sh-sh-sh!  .  .  .  My  Caribou!    Somebody's  dere! 
He's  crying  .  .  .  little  bit  crazy  in  dose  wind  .  .  . 
Ain't?  .  .  .  You  hear-um  .  .  .  far  'way  .  .  .  crying 
Lak  my  old  woman  w'en  she's  lose  de  baby 
And  no  can  find-um — w'en  she's  running  ever  yw' ere, 
Falling  in  snow,  talking  little  bit  crazy, 


16  THE  BOX  OF  GOD 

Calling  and  crying  for  shees  little  boy  .  .  . 
Sh-sh-sh!  .  .  .  Something's  dere — you  hear-wn?  .  .  . 

ain't? 
Somebody — somebody's  dere,  crying  .  .  .  crying  .  .  " 

Then  from  the  swale,  where  shadows  pranced  gro 
tesquely 

Solemn,  like  phantom  puppets  on  a  string, 
A  cry — pointed,  brittle,  perpendicular — 
As  startling  as  a  thin  stiff  blade  of  ice 
Laid  swift  and  sharp  on  fever-burning  flesh: 
The  tremulous  wail  of  a  lonely  shivering  wolf, 
Piercing  the  world's  great  heart  like  an  icy  sword  .  .  . 

"Look!  .  .  .  Quick! — Ah-deek!  .  .  .  Somebody's  dere! 

Ain't?  .  .  .  He's  come — he's  come  for  me — for  me! 

Me — me,  I  go! My  Caribou — 

Dose  fire — dose  fire  she's  going  out — she's  cold  .  .  . 

T'row — t'row  on  dose  knots  of  pine  .  .  .  Mee-gwetch! 

And  pull  'way  from  dose  flame — dose  pan  of  sour 
dough, 

If  you  want  eat — in  de  morning — damn-good  flap 
jack. 

t(Sh-sh-sh-sh!  Somet'ing's  dere!  .  .  .   You  hear-um? 

ain't?    .    .    . 

Somebody — somebody's  dere,  calling  .  .  .  calling  .  .  . 
I  go /  go — me ! me I  go  ...   " 


m:  TALKING  WATERS 

O  eagle  whose  whistling  wings  have  known  the  lift 
Of  high  mysterious  hands,  and  the  wild  sweet  music 
Of  big  winds  among  the  ultimate  stars, 
The  black-robes  put  you  in  a  box  of  God, 
Seeking  in  honest  faith  and  holy  zeal 
To  lay  upon  your  lips  new  songs,  to  swell 
The  chorus  of  amens  and  hallelujahs. 
O  bundle  of  copper  bones  tossed  in  a  hole, 
Here  in  the  place-of-death — God's- fenced-in-ground ! — 
Beneath  these  put-in-pines  and  waxen  lilies, 
They  placed  you  in  a  crimson  gash  in  the  hillside, 
Here  on  a  bluff  above  the  Sleepy-eye, 
Where  the  Baptism  River,  mumbling  among  the  canyons, 
Shoulders  its  flood  through  crooning  waterfalls 
In  a  mist  of  wafted  foam  fragile  as  petals 
Of  windflowers  blowing  across  the  green  of  April; 
Where  ghosts  of  wistful  leaves  go  floating  up 
In  the  rustling  blaze  of  autumn,  like  silver  smokes 
Slenderly  twisting  among  the  thin  blue  winds; 
Here  in  the  great  gray  arms  of  Mont  du  Pere, 
Where  the  shy  arbutus,  the  mink,  and  the  Johnny- 
jump-up 

Huddle  and  whisper  of  a  long,  long  winter ; 
Where  stars,  with  soundless  feet,  come  trooping  up 

17 


i8  THE  BOX  OF  GOD 

,To  dance  to  the  water-drums  of  white  cascades — 
Where  stars,  like  little  children,  go  singing  down 
The  sky  to  the  flute  of  the  wind  in  the  willow-tree — 
Somebody — somebody's  there  .  .  .  O  Pagan  Joe  .  .  . 
Can't  you  see  Him  ?  as  He  moves  among  the  mountains  ? 
Where  dusk,  dew-lidded,  slips  among  the  valleys 
Soft  as  a  blue  wolf  walking  in  thick  wet  moss? 
Look ! — my  friend ! — at  the  breast  of  Mont  du  Pere !  .  .  . 
Sh-sh-sh-sh ! . . .  Don't  you  hear  His  talking  waters  ?  .  . . 
Soft  in  the  gloom  as  broken  butterflies 
Hovering  above  a  somber  pool  .  .  .  Sh-sh-sh-sh! 
Somebody's  there  ...  in  the  heart  of  Mont  du  Pere  .  .  . 
Somebody — somebody's  there,  sleeping  .  .  .  sleeping  .  .  . 


PART    II 

GREEN  ALTARS 


IN  THE  ROCKY  MOUNTAINS  I 

Shoshone  National  Forest 
Jackson's  Hole 
Upper   Yellowstone   River 
Absaroka  Range 


WIND  IN  THE  PINE 

Oh,  I  can  hear  you,  God,  above  the  cry, 

Of  the  tossing  trees — * 
Rolling  your  windy  tides  across  the  sky, 
And  splashing  your  silver  seaSj, 

Over  the  pine, 
To  the  water-line. 
Of  the  moon.^ 
Oh,  I  can  hear  you,  God, 
Above  the  wail  of  the  lonely  loon — 
When  the  pine-tops  pitch  and  nod — 

Chanting  your  melodieSv 
Of  ghostly  waterfalls  and  avalanches, 
Swashing  your  wind  among  the  branches 
To  make  them  pure  and  white. 

Wash  over  me,  God,  with  your  piney  breeze, 
And  your  moon's  wet-silver  pool ; 

Wash  over  me,  God,  with  your  wind  and  night, 
And  leave  me  clean  and  cool. 


21 


TETON  MOUNTAIN 

She  walks  alone  against  the  dusky  sky, 
With  something  of  the  manner  of  a  queen — 

Her  gesturing  peaks,  imperious  and  high; 
Her  snowy  brow,  serene. 

Under  her  feet,  a  tapestry  of  pine ; 

Veiling  her  marble  figure,  purple  haze, 
Draped  with  a  scarf  of  clouds  at  timber-line, 

In  a  billowy  silken  maze. 

And  in  the  moonlight  a  spangled  necklace  shakes 
And  shimmers  silver-blue  upon  her  shoulders — 

A  fragile  thread  of  crinkling  brooks  and  lakes 
In  the  glimmering  ice  and  boulders. 

Among  her  eagle-winged  and  starry  host 
Of  lovers,  like  an  austere  virgin  nun, 

She  broods — yielding  a  moment  at  the  most, 
To  the  lips  of  the  amorous  sun. 


MESA-MIST 

When  the  passion  of  the  day  is  done, 

And  the  weary  sun, 
Lingering  above  the  calm  plateau 

And  mesa-waters,  stains 
The  cottonwoods  and  sleeping  cranes 

With  afterglow, 
Day  keeps  a  fleeting  tryst 
With  Night  in  the  mesa-mist. 
When  her  crimson  arm  embraces 

The  clouds  and  plains 
No  more,  spent  Day  slips  quietly  to  rest 
On  a  ghostly  breast — 
And  nothing  remains, 
Save  in  the  twilit  places, 
The  ghosts  of  rains 
And  columbines  whose  wistful  faces 
Droop  where  the  purple-pollened  fir 
Tinctures  the  dusk  with  lavender. 


THE  RED  DRAGOON 

I 

Among  the  brittle  needles  of  the  pine, 

A  crackling  ember,  casually  flung — 

Spitting  in  the  tinder  of  the  soil  .  .  . 

Writhing  crimson  vipers 

Redly  licking  at  the  leaves 

With  flickering  venomous  tongues, 

Bellying  into  the  amorous  wind, 

And  sinking  red  tusks  in  the  flank  of  the  night . . . 


II 


Lo!  blazing  mane  and  streaming  bridle, 
Bursting  out  of  the  lurid  hills, 
A  stallion, 

A  livid-crimson  stallion, 
A  lightning-pinioned  stallion, 
Crashing  out  of  the  billowing  smoke 
On  a  flaming  crimson  trail. 
A  ghastly  shriek  in  the  canyon, 
An  echoing  moan  in  the  pines, 
A  wild  red  rush  of  flying  feet, 
And  a  hand  at  the  charger's  bit. 
A  flame-shod  foot  in  the  stirrup, 
24 


THE  RED  DRAGOON  25 

A  phantom  hand  on  the  reins — 
And  vaulting  into  the  saddle, 
A  rider  in  scarlet, 
A  swaggering  rider  in  scarlet, 
The  ghost  of  a  Red  Dragoon ! 

A  war-brawling  wild  cavalier, 
With  a  cackle  sardonic  and  grim, 
A  bite  in  his  whistling  arrows, 
And  a  blight  in  his  scorching  breath. 
Careering  he  charges  the  timber 
With  clouds  of  resin-hot  lances, 
And  he  shouts  a  demoniac  laughter 
When  his  blood-bleary  eyes  behold, 
Scurrying  out  of  the  riotous  hills 
A  rabble  of  shadowy  things — 
Oh,  the  clatter  of  whistling  deer, 
The  patter  of  feet  in  the  rushes, 
The  bleat  of  the  panting  fawn  !— 
Flung  out  of  the  timber  like  leaves, 
Like  burning  leaves  in  the  wind 
Whirled  over  the  hills  and  the  valleys 
And  out  to  the  fringes  of  night  .  .  . 

A  bloody-lipped  red  cavalier ! 
A  blasphemous  dread  cavalier ! 
Galloping  into  the  cloud-templed  hills 
With  a  ribald  song  in  his  mouth, 
With  a  curse  for  the  gray-bearded  firs 
That  complain  of  his  searing  breath — 
Sundering  their  boles  with  a  molten  fist, 


26  THE  BOX  OF  GOD 

Cleaving  their  suppliant  branches, 

With  a  jeer  as  they  go  to  a  thundering  doom 

Enshrouded  in  bellowing  flame, 

As  they  wing  their  gray  souls 

On  the  spiralling  smoke 

Up  to  the  ultimate  sky. 

Galloping  over  tumultuous  clouds 

To  tilt  at  the  livid-lipped  stars ; 

Galloping  on  through  the  turbulent  night 

And  over  the  rim  of  the  world  . 


Ill 


Oh,  the  toll  of  the  rider  in  scarlet! 

The  toll  of  the  Red  Dragoon! 

Windrows  of  charred  black  bones 

Strewn  over  a  pocked  and  gutted  land; 

Skeletons — once  draped  in  the  green 

Of  leaf  and  the  silken  sheen  of  moss — 

Bare  skeletons,  bitter  of  laughter, 

Clattering  through  long  white  nights — 

Gray  ghosts  in  a  land  of  ravaged  dead, 

Playing  the  bow  of  the  wind  futilely 

Over  the  once  resonant  fiddle, 

Striving  again  to  beguile  old  melodies, 

Bemoaning  the  old  sweet  Aprils. 

O,  fiddlers,  scratching  over  the  shattered  box, 

And  scraping  over  the  tattered  strings, 

Pray,  conjure  me  a  tune ! — the  low  call 

Of  the  last  singing  bird  that  is  gone. 


DUST 

This  much  I  know: 
Under  the  bludgeonings  of  snow 
And  sleet  and  sharp  adversity, 

From  high  estate 
The  seemingly  immortal  tree 
Shall  soon  or  late 
Go  down  to  dust; 
When  a  wild  wet  gust^ 
Tumbles  the  gaunt  debris 
Down  from  the  gashed  plateau 
And  out  upon  the  plain, 
The  dust  shall  go 
Down  with  the  rain; 
Rivers  are  slow, 
Rivers  are  fast, 

But  rivers  and  rains  run  down  to  the  sea, 
All  rains  go  down  to  the  sea  at  last. 

Ho!  shake  the  red  bough, 

And  cover  me  now, 
Cover  me  now  with  dreams, 

With  a  blast 

Of  falling  leaves,  with  the  filtered  gleams 
Of  the  moon; 
27 


THE  BOX  OF  GOD 

Shake  the  dead  bough 
And  cover  me  now, 

For  soon 

Rivers  and  rains  shall  go  with  me 
Down  to  the  vast  infinity. 


SWEETWATER  RANGE 

I  was  loping  along  in  the  Sweetwater  Range, 
When  the  shadowy  clouds  of  sleep, 

On  the  blue  earth  had  settled  like  raven's  wings, 
With  a  swift  mysterious  sweep. 

The  valley  lay  calm  as  a  beaver-pond 
When  the  hunter's  moon  hangs  low, 

And  the  hills  were  soft  as  the  velvet  sod 
Under  an  antelope  doe. 

Serene  overhead  in  the  dusky  blue, 

A  single  star  through  the  night 
Glowed  like  a  candle  held  by  God 

As  a  friendly  beacon-light ; 

A  flame  in  the  window  of  His  vast  house, 

Beckoning  out  to  me — 
I  could  almost  see  Him  peering  down, 

As  He  waited  expectantly. 

So  I  flung  Him  a  couple  of  friendly  songs, 

As  I  cantered  a  lonely  mile: 
Swing  Low  Sweet  Chariot,  Old  Black  Joe, 

Jordan,  and  Beautiful  Isle. 
29 


30  THE  BOX  OF  GOD 

For  the  singing  of  psalms  my  voice  was  raw — 

I  was  never  a  parson's  pet; 
And  the  tremolo  wail  of  a  shivering  wolf 

Made  it  a  strange  duet. 

But  hard  on  the  echoes — from  Avalanche  Peak, 
Where  the  Yellowrock  Cataract  spills — 

I  heard  Him  sing  back  to  me  clear  as  a  bell 
In  the  frosty  dawn  of  the  hills. 


LEAVE  ME  TO  MY  OWN 

Oh,  leave  me  to  my  own; 
Unglorified — perchance  unknown, 

One  of  a  nameless  band 
Of  gipsy  cloud  and  silent  butte  and  fir. 

Oh,  let  me  stand 

Against  the  whipping  wind,  in  the  lavender 

Of  dusk,  like  a  mighty  limber-pine 

At  timber-line — 

Unyielding,  stiff, 

Unbent  of  head 

Among  the  ageless  dead — 

One  with  the  mountain's  cliff 

And  the  imperturbable   stone. 

And  when  the  winter  gales  intone 
Among  my  boughs  a  dread 

And  melancholy  sweep 
Of  song,  and  some  mysterious  hand 

Brushes  my  heart 
In  a  mournful  melody,  weep 
No  tear  for  me,  nor  moan — 

Pray,  stand  apart 

From  me,  and  leave  me  to  my  own ; 

For  in  the  high  blue  valleys  of  this  land, 

When  the  afterglow 


32  THE  BOX  OF  GOD 

Lingers  among  the  glaciers,  I  shall  know 

Again  the  calm 
Of  dusk,  the  dewy  balm 

Of  sleep,  release 
From  pain — and  utter  peace. 

Oh,  leave  me  to  the  wild  companionship 

Of  firs  that  toss 

In  the  windy  night  and  drip 

Their  wild  wet  rains  upon  the  moss; 

To  the  columbine 
That  strives  to  slip 
Shyly  among  my  roots  and  tip 

Its  sparkling  wine 
Upon  my  grassy  shrine; 

To  the  brotherhood 

Of  bending  skies  bestrown 

With  stars  above  the  soundless  solitude — 

Of  waterfalls  that  fling  upon  the  night 

A  stony  broken  music  from  their  height — 

Oh,  leave  me  to  my  own. 


MARCHING  PINES 

Up  the  drifted  foothills, 

Like  phantoms  in  a  row, 
The  ragged  lines  of  somber  pines 

Filed  across  the  snow. 

Down  the  gloomy  coulees 
The  burdened  troopers  went, 

Snowy  packs  upon  their  backs — 
Bowed  of  head  and  bent. 

Up  the  cloudy  mountains, 
A  mournful  singing  band, 

Marching  aimless  to  some  nameless, 
Undiscovered  land. 


33 


YELLOW  MOON 

O  yellow  moon, 
Drifting  across  the  night 
As  a  rakish  pirate  brig, 

Tattered  of  rig 
And  ghostly  white, 
Goes  floating  down  the  black  lagoon 
Of  a  dead  sea — 
O  pirate  moon, 
Out  of  your  hatch  and  hold 
Pour  down  your  buccaneering  beams, 
Your  pirates,  swaggering  and  bold, 
And  bid  them  capture  me ; 

O  ghostly  moon, 

Carry  me  out  to  the   farthest  sweep 

Of  the  slow  tides  of  sleep; 

Abandon  me  upon  the  gold 

Of  some  enchanted  strand, 

Where  the  blue-flame  comber  gleams 

And  breaks  upon  the  sand; 

Oh,  sail  with  me  to  a  far  land 

Of  unremembered  dreams. 


TIMBER-LINE  CEDAR 

Ho!  patriarchal  cedar,  torn 
By  bitter  winds,  and  weather-worn, 
How  came  your  countenance  so  sour, 
Disconsolate,  and  dour? 

In  hermit-souls  I've  never  seen 
So  gnarled  and  dolorous  a  mien — 
Such  a  mournful  misanthrope 
Bereft  of  faith  and  hope. 

Can  it  be  your  figure  spare 
Is  due  to  slender  mountain- f are  ? 
Your  limbs  awry  with  rheumatic  pains 
From  chilling  autumn  rains? 

How  came  the  choler-twisted  mouth? — 
Wrangling  with  the  wind  and  drouth? 
And  how  the  beaten  head  and  branch? — 
Ruthless  avalanche? 

What!  Within  your  scanty  shade, 
Sharing  life  with  you,  a  blade ! — 
Sheltered  by  a  withered  root, 
A  lupine  at  your  foot ! 
35 


36  THE  BOX  OF  GOD 

Deceiver!  Holding  in  the  bower 
Of  your  breast  a  fragile  flower, — 
When  every  gesture  seems  to  hint 
A  heart  of  solid  flint! — 

I  know  you  now  for  what  you  are ! — 
A  roguish  beau,  grown  angular 
And  gruff,  but  still  at  heart  quite  gentle, 
And  highly  sentimental. 


WHOOPING  CRANE 

Oh,  what  a  night  it  was  for  dreams : 
The  bayou  placid  after  rain; 

The  pensive  moon,  the  silver  gleams — 
And  among  the  reeds,  a  crane. 

Like  a  silver  fountain  fixed  by  frost, 
All  night  the  stilted  sleeping  bird 

In  frozen  winter-sleep  was  lost; 
Never  a  feather  stirred. 


37 


LET  ME  FLOWER  AS  I  WILL 

God,  let  me  flower  as  I  will! 
For  I  am  weary  of  the  chill 
Companionship  of  waxen  vines 
And  hothouse-nurtured  columbines; 
Oh,  weary  of  the  pruning-knife 
That  shapes  my  prim  decorous  life — 
Of  clambering  trellises  that  hold  me, 
Of  flawless  patterned  forms  that  mold  me. 

God,  let  me  flower  as  I  "will! 
A  shaggy  rambler  on  the  hill ! — 
Familiar  with  April's  growing  pain 
Of  green  buds  bursting  after  rain. 
Oh,  let  me  hear  among  the  sheaves 
Of  autumn,  the  song  of  wistful  leaves, 
The  lullaby  of  the  brook  that  dallies 
Among  the  high  blue  mountain  valleys. 
And  may  my  comrades  be  but  these: 
Birds  on  the  bough,  and  guzzling  bees 
Among  my  blossoms,  as  they  sup 
On  the  dew  in  my  silver-petaled  cup. 

God,  let  my  parching  roots  go  deep 
Among  the  cold  green  springs,  and  keep 
Firm  grip  upon  the  mossy  edges 
38 


LET  ME  FLOWER  AS  I  WILL  39 

Of  imperishable  granite  ledges, 
That  thus  my  body  may  withstand 
Vast  avalanche  of  snow  and  sand, 
The  trample  of  the  years,  the  flail 
Of  whipping  wind  and  bouncing  hail. 

And  when  December  with  its  shroud 
Of  fallen  snow  and  leaden  cloud, 
Shall  find  me  in  the  holiday 
Of  slumber,  shivering  and  gray 
Against  the  sky — and  in  the  end, 
My  somber  days  shall  hold  no  friend 
Save  a  whimpering  wolf,  and  on  the  tree 
A  frozen  bird — so  may  it  be. 
For  in  that  day  I  shall  have  won 
The  glory  of  the  summer  sun; 
My  leaves,  by  windy  fingers  played, 
An  eerie  music  shall  have  made ; 
I  shall  have  known  in  some  far  land 
The  tender  comfort  of  a  Hand, 
And  the  liquid  beauty  of  a  Tongue 
That  finds  its  syllables  among 
Wild  wind  and  waterfall  and  r ill- 
God,  let  me  flower  as  I  will! 


OCTOBER  SNOW 

Swiftly  the  blizzard  stretched  a  frozen  arm 

From  out  the  hollow  night — 
Stripping  the  world  of  all  her  scarlet  pomp, 

And  muffling  her  in  white. 

Dead  white  the  hills;  dead  white  the  soundless  plain; 

Dead  white  the  blizzard's  breath — 
Heavy  with  hoar  that  touched  each  woodland  thing 

With  a  white  and  silent  death. 

In  inky  stupor,  along  the  drifted  snow, 

The  sluggish  river  rolled — 
A  numb  black  snake  caught  lingering  in  the  sun 

By  autumn's  sudden  cold. 


INDIAN  SUMMER 

When  I  went  down  the  butte  to  drink  at  dawn, 

I  saw  a  frozen  lily  by  the  spring, 
A  ragged  stream-line  rank  of  whistling  swan, 

And  the  swift  flash  of  a  willet's  wing. 

And  now  comes  a  hint  of  winter  in  the  air : 
Among  the  pensive  valleys  drifts  a  haze 

Of  dusty  blue,  and  the  quaking-asp  lies  bare 
To  the  chill  breath  of  hoary  days. 

Farewell,  my  mountain-ash  and  goldenrod, 

For  summer  swoons  in  autumn's  arms,  and  dies, 

As  the  languid  rivers  drowse  and  the  asters  nod 
Beneath  the  gray  wind's  lullabies. 

Farewell,  my  fleet-foot  antelope  and  doe; 

Farewell,  my  wild  companions  of  the  hills — 
Soon  in  your  winter-slumber  you  will  go 

To  a  far  land  of  singing  rills. 

Soon  by  the  fire  I'll  sit  with  quiet  dreams ; 

In  the  sinuous  smoke,  silver  against  the  blue, 
That  floats  above  the  dusky  vales  and  streams, 

My  eyes  will  see  the  ghosts  of  you. 
41 


42  THE  BOX  OF  GOD 

I'll  ride  my  night-patrols  upon  the  peak — 
And  the  big  wind  among  the  firs,  the  lone 

Wandering  wolf,  and  the  waterfall  will  speak 
Of  you  in  a  language  of  their  own. 

We'll  miss  you,  blue-eyed  grass  and  laughing  brook ; 

In  the  spring  on  some  high  mesa  we'll  confer, 
And  with  shining  eyes  we'll  trace  your  form,  and  look 

For  you  when  your  snowy  blankets  stir. 

Rest  well,  my  comrades ;  know  that  while  you  sleep, 
With  eager  hearts  we'll  listen  for  your  song, 

And  through  the  night  a  patient  watch  we'll  keep 
For  you — don't  stay  away  too  long. 


DROUTH 

The  scorching  embers  of  the  sun 

All  month  had  smoldered  on  the  land, 

Until  the  lakes  and  marshes,  one  by  one, 
Were  pools  of  glistering  sand. 

The  pond-reeds  rattled  with  each  gasp 

Of  wind  like  brittle  yellow  bones ; 
Endless  the  pessimistic  cricket's  rasp 

Among  the  crumbling  stones. 

The  runnel,  dribbling  among  the  sheaves, 

Ran  thin  as  a  fragile  silver  thread, 
And  Shoshone  River  rolled  a  stream  of  leaves 

Along  its  blistered  bed. 

All  day  the  sage,  in  dusty  shrouds, 

Sucked  at  the  alkali  in  vain ; 
All  night  the  mountains  combed  the  scudding  clouds 

Desperately  for  rain. 


43 


FISHER  OF  STARS 

My  wild  blood  leaped  as  I  watched  the  falling  stars 
Flash  through  the  night  and  gleam, 

Like  spawning  trout  that  hurtle  the  riffled  bars 
Of  a  dusky  mountain  stream. 

Like  quivering  rainbow-trout  that  run  in  spring, 

Arching  the  water-slides, — 
Out  of  the  limpid  sky,  in  a  wild  wet  fling, 

They  shook  their  crimson  sides. 

My  sportsman's  heart  flamed  up,  as  the  fishes  dashed 

In  school  on  shimmering  school, 
Through  high  cascades  and  waterfalls,  and  splashed 

In  the  deep  of  a  cloudy  pool. 

I  fished  that  pond;  I  chose  my  longest  line, 

And  cast  with  my  supplest  rod — 
The  one  was  a  thing  of  dreams,  oh,  gossamer-fine; 

The  other  a  gift  from  God. 

I  flicked  the  Milky  Way  from  edge  to  edge 

With  an  iridescent  fly; 
I  whipped  the  polar  rapids,  and  every  ledge 

And  cut-bank  in  the  sky. 
44 


FISHER  OF  STARS  45 

To  the  Pleiades  I  cast  with  my  willowy  pole ; 

And  I  let  my  line  run  out 
To  the  farthest  foamy  cove  and  skyey  hole — 

And  I  raised  a  dozen  trout. 

And  every  time  one  struck  my  slender  hook, 

He  shattered  the  trembling  sea, 
With  a  sweep  of  his  shivering  silver  fin,  and  he  shook 

A  silver  rain  on  me; 

My  line  spun  out,  my  fly-rod  bent  in  twain, 

As  over  the  sky  he  fought; 
My  fingers  bled,  my  elbows  throbbed  with  pain — 

But  my  fishing  went  for  naught. 

I  landed  never  a  one ;  my  line  and  hackle 

Were  none  too  subtle  and  fine; 
For  angling  stars  one  wants  more  delicate  tackle,— 

A  more  cunning  hand  than  mine. 


ALKALI  POOL 

In  the  golden  setting  of  the  butte  it  lay, 

Deep  emerald  of  hue; 
In  the  copper  filigree  of  dying  day 

It  gleamed  a  sapphire-blue. 

And  yet  its  stagnant  waters  held  a  hint 

Of  alkali  and  lead — 
And  the  limpid  spring  seemed  baleful  with  the  glint 

Of  the  stone  in  a  serpent's  head. 


OLD  OAK 

Oh,  you  and  I,  old  oak,  beneath  the  leaden  skies 
Of  waning  autumn,  shall  hold  our  ways  together; 

For  the  hermit-thrush  departs,  and  our  fickle  summer 

flies 
Before  the  hoary  breath  of  sterner  weather. 

Old  oak  forlorn  and  mournful,  together  we  shall  know 
A  calm  white  death — the  cold  moon  riding  by, 

The  silent  winter-sleep  beneath  the  soundless  snow, 
The  still  companionship  of  starry  sky. 

O  mournful  tree,  why  yearn  with  suppliant  arms  to 

hold 

The  migrant  bird  ?    Why  weep  with  windy  grief  ? 
Why  cling  with  great  gaunt  hands  to  the  hollow  charms, 

the  cold 
And  faded  love  of  the  last  palsied  leaf  ? 

Mourn  not;  for  we  shall  know  again  the  summer  sun, 
New  greener  leaves,  the  vagrant  bird,  and  the  gleams 

Of  bees  that  nuzzle  the  buds  when  the  rains  of  April 

run. 
Grieve  not ;  for  now  is  the  time  for  quiet  dreams. 


47 


LOOK  FOR  ME 

When  the  sinking  sun 
Goes  down  to  the  sea, 
And  the  last  day  is  done, 

Oh,  look  for  me 
Beneath  no  shimmering  monument, 

Nor  tablet  eloquent 
With  stiff  decorous  eulogy; 

Nor  yet  in  the  gloom 
Of  a  chipped  and  chiseled  tomb. 

But  when  the  pregnant  bud  shall  burst 

With  April's  sun,  and  bloom 

Upon  the  bough — 

Look  for  me  now, 

In  the  sap  of  the  first 

Puccoon  whose  fragile  root, 

Bruised  by  the  rain, 
Has  left  a  crimson  stain 
Upon  the  cedar-glade. 

Oh,  look  for  me  then, 
For  I  shall  come  again, 
In  the  leopard-lily's  shoot, 


LOOK  FOR  ME  49 

And  in  the  green  wet  blade 

Of  the  peppergrass. 
When  the  warm  winds  pass 

Over  the  waking  rills, 
And  the  wild  arbutus  spills 
Its  fragrance  on  the  air, — 

Look  for  me  then — 
Asleep  in  a  ferny  glen 
High  in  the  hills, 

Deep  in  the  dew-drenched  maiden-hair ; 
I  shall  be  waiting,  waiting  there. 


PART   III 

RED  GODS 

Poems  of  Indian  Theme 


IN  THE  LAND  OF  THE  CHIPPEWAS 

Superior  National  Forest 
Upper  Mississippi  River 
Red  Lake  Indian  Forest 
Pigeon  River  Reservation 


THUNDERDRUMS  * 

An  Indian  War-medicine  Dance 

I 

THE  DRUMMERS  SING: 

Beat  on  the  buckskin,  beat  on  the  drums, 

Hi !  Hi !  Hi !  for  the  Thunderbird  comes ; 

His  eyes  burn  red  with  the  blood  of  battle; 

His  wild  wings  roar  in  the  medicine  rattle. 

Thunderbird-god,  while  our  spirits  dance, 

Tip  with  your  lightning  the  warrior's  lance; 

On  shafts  of  wind,  with  heads  of  flame, 

Build  for  us  arrows  that  torture  and  maim; 

Ho !  may  our  ironwood  war-clubs  crash 

With  a  thunderbolt  head  and  a  lightning  flash. 

Hi !  Hi !  Hi !  hear  the  Cut-throat's  doom 

As  our  wild  bells  ring  and  our  thunderdrums  boom. 

*  For  supplementary  notes  on  this  poem  and  the  remaining 
poems  in  Part  III,  see  Appendix,  pages  75-88. 


53 


II 

DOUBLE-BEAR  DANCES 

Hi!  Hi!  Hi 

My  wild  feet  fly, 

For  I  follow  the  track 

Of  a  cowardly  pack; 

Footprints  here, 

Footprints  there, — 

Enemies  near ! — 

Taint  in  the  air! 

Signs  on  the  sod! 

Ho!  the  Thunderbird-god 

Gives  me  the  eye 

Of  a  hawk  in  the  sky ! — 

Beat,  beat  on  the  drums, 

For  the  Thunderbird  comes, 

Ho!  Ho! 

Ho!  Ho! 


54 


Ill 

JUMPING-RIVER  DANCES 

Ho !  hear  me  shout — 
A  Pucker-skin  scout 
With  a  nose  that  is  keen 
For  winds  unclean. 
Look !  Look !  Look ! 
At  the  distant  nook, 
Where  the  hill-winds  drift 
As  the  night-fogs  lift  : 
Ten  smokes  I  see 
Of  the  Cut-throat  Sioux — 
Ten  ghosts  there  will  be, — 
Ten  plumes  on  my  coup; 
For  my  arms  grow  strong 
With  my  medicine-song, 
And  a  Pucker-skin  scout 
Has  a  heart  that  is  stout. 
Beat,  beat  on  the  drums, 
For  the  Thunderbird  comes. 

Hdh-yah-ah-hdy ! 

Hdh-yah-ah-hdy ! 


55 


IV 

GHOST-WOLF  DANCES 

Ho!  Ho!  Ho! 

In  the  winds  that  blow 

From  yonder  hill, 

When  the  night  is  still, 

What  do  I  hear 

With  my  Thunderbird  ear? 

Down  from  the  river 

A  gray  wolf's  wail? 

Coyotes  that  quiver 

And  slink  the  tail?— 

Ugh!  enemies  dying, — 
And  women  crying ! — 
For  Cut-throat  men — 
One,  two  .  .  .  nine,  ten. 
Ho!  Ho!  Ho! 
The  Spirit-winds  blow, — 
Beat,  beat  on  the  drums 
For  the  Thunderbird  comes. 
Ah-hah-hdy! 
Ah-hah-hdy! 


V 

IRON-WIND  DANCES: 

Over  and  under 
The  shaking  sky, 
The  war-drums  thunder 
When  I  dance  by ! — 
Ho !  a  warrior  proud, 
I  dance  on  a  cloud, 
For  my  ax  shall  feel 
The  enemy  reel ; 
My  heart  shall  thrill 
To  a  bloody  kill,— 
Ten  Sioux  dead 
Split  open  of  head ! — 
Look !  to  the  West  I— 
The  sky-line  drips, — 
Blood  from  the  breast! 
Blood  from  the  lips! 
Ho !  when  I  dance  by, 
The  war-drums  thunder 
Over  and  under 
The  shaking  sky. 
Beat,  Beat  on  the  drums, 
For  the  Thunderbird  comes, 

Wuhl 

Wuh! 


57 


VI 

THE  DRUMMERS  SING: 

Beat  on  the  buckskin,  beat  on  the  drums, 

Hi!  Hi!  Hi!  for  the  Thunderbird  comes; 

His  eyes  glow  red  with  the  lust  for  battle, 

And  his  big  wings  roar  in  the  medicine-rattle. 

Thunderbird-god,  while  our  spirits  dance, 

Tip  with  your  lightning  the  warrior's  lance; 

On  shafts  of  wind,  with  heads  of  flame, 

Build  for  us  arrows  that  torture  and  maim ; 

Ho !  may  our  ironwood  war-clubs  crash 

With  a  thunderbolt  head  and  a  lightning  flash. 

Hi !  Hi !  Hi !  hear  the  Cut-throat's  doom, 

As  our  wild  bells  ring  and  our  thunderdrums  boom. 


INDIAN  SLEEP-SONG 

Zhoo  .  .  .  zhoo,  zhoo ! 
My  little  brown  chief, 
The  bough  of  the  willow 
Is  rocking  the  leaf; 
The  sleepy  wind  cries 
To  you,  close  your  eyes, — 
O  little  brown  chief, 
Zhoo  .  .  .  zhoo,  zhoo ! 

Koo  ....  koo,  koo! 
My  little  brown  bird, 
A  wood-dove  was  dreaming 
And  suddenly  stirred; 
A  brown  mother-dove, 
Dreaming  of  love, — 
O  little  brown  bird, 
Koo  ....  koo,  koo! 

Sh sh,  sh! 

My  little  brown  fawn, 
The  snowflakes  are  falling, — » 
The  Winter-men  yawn; 
They  cover  with  white 


59 


60  THE  BOX  OF  GOD 

Their  children  to-night, — 
O  little  brown  fawn, 
Sh sh,  sh! 

Hoo  ....  hoo,  hoo! 
My  little  brown  owl, 
Yellow-eye  frightens 
Bad  spirits  that  prowl; 
For  you  she  will  keep 
A  watch  while  you  sleep, — 
O  little  brown  owl, 
Hoo  ....  hoo,  hoo ! 

Zhoo  .  .  .  zhoo,  zhoo! 
O  leaf  in  the  breeze. 
Koo  ....  koo,  koo ! 
Shy  bird  in  the  trees. 

Sh" sh,  sh! 

O  snow-covered  fawn. 
Hoo  ....  hoo,  hoo! 
Sleep  softly  till  dawn. 


TO  A  DEAD  PEMBINA  WARRIOR 

Killed  by  Indians  in  hostile  territory  and,  at  his 
request,  given  a  tree-burial:  i.  e.,  wrapped  in  a  bundle 
of  birchbark  and  placed  in  the  crotch  of  a  tree. 

O  warrior-soul,  afloat 
Upon  the  seas  of  night 
In  your  ghostly  birchen  boat, 
Anchored  upon  the  black  limb, 
And  etched  against  the  white 
Of  the  broken  hunter's  moon, — 
O  spirit,  dark  and  dim, 
Draped  with  festoon 
Of  moss,  and  shielded  by  lancing  pines 
That  ring  their  ragged  lines 
Around  the  somber  swamp, — 
Sleep  without  fear  in  your  birchen  shroud, 
Sleep  with  a  heart  secure  and  proud 

In  your  ghostly  burial  pomp. 
Know  that  the  iron-hearted  mountain-ash 
Lifts  you  with  mighty  arms 

Up  to  the  proud  flash 
Of  the  moon,  holds  you  high 
In  the  unconquered  sky, 
Secure  in  a  starry  cache, 


61 


62  THE  BOX  OF  GOD 

Safe  from  the  harms 
Of  the  little  peoples  of  the  earth. 
Through  soundless  nights,  with  ghostly  mirth, 
Echoing  your  crimson  scalping-cry 

From  peak  to  peak, 
The  lonely  wolf  will  speak 
Of  you  and  your  many  bloody  wars. 
When  white  Bee-boan  shall  heap 

His  snowy  avalanche — 
Soft  as  the  down  of  the  Canada  goose—' 
In  tufted  drifts  and  bars 

On  the  black  branch 
To  keep  you  warm  in  winter-sleep, 

The  wild  feet  of  the  stars 
Mirrored  upon  the  frozen  snow, 
Will  dance  for  you,  row  on  row; 
And  when  the  hoary  spruce 

Bends  on  your  head, 
To  whisper  lullabies,  to  weep 
Sweet  songs  for  the  dead — 
Lo !  out  of  the  white  deep 
Of  night  the  winter  wind  will  sweep 

Down  on  your  birchen  bed, 
To  wrap  its  arms  about  your  clay, 

To  carry  you  away 
To  the  land  of  your  desires, 
To  the  country  whence  you  came 

Like  a  flame, 

Back  to  the  country  of  your  sires, 
To  a  land  of  friendly  council  fires. 


MEDALS  AND  HOLES 

An  Indian  Council  Talk 

Boo-zhoo  nee-chee !   Me — Yellow-Otter, 
I'm  going  mak'-um  big-talk,  'Spector  Jone'. 

Look-see! — on  chest  I'm  got-um  golden  medal; 
Got-um  woman  on  medal !    Ho ! — good  medal ! 

Me — I'm  go  on  Washington  long  tarn'  ago ; 

Me — I'm  tell-um  Keetch-ie   O-gi-ma,  dose  big  w'ite 

chief : 

"Eenzhunsx  no  lak'-um  Eenzhun  rese'vation; 
No  good  !  She's  too  much  jack-pine,  sand,  and  swamp." 
Big-chief,  him  say :  "(5-zah-wah-kig,  you  be  good  boy ! 
Go  back  to  rese'vation.     You  tell-um  tribe 
If  Eenzhun  stay  on  rese'vation,  Washin'ton  gov'ment 
Give-um  all  de  Eenzhuns  plenty  payments, 
Give-um  plenty  good  hats  and  suits  o'  clothes 
My  heart  is  good  to  you;  you  damned  good  Eenzhun. 
Me — I'm  stick-urn  dis  golden  medal  on  your  chest." 
Ho!  I'm  walk-um  home,     I  got-um  medal — look-see! 

But  no  got-um  plenty  good  hats  and  suits  o'  clothes ; 

No  got-um  every  year ;  only  every  two  year. 

Clothes  no  good  !   Look-see !   Got-um  clothes  on  now — 

1  Indians. 

63 


64  THE  BOX  OF  GOD 

No  good !     Got-um  holes  in  legs — plenty-big  holes 
Wit*  not  much  clot'  around ;  and  too  much  buttons  off. 
Gov'ment  clothes  she's  coming  every  two  year — 
Long  tarn*  between,  too  much — wit*  too  much  holes. 

Before  de  w'ite  man  come  across  big-water, 

In  olden  tarn',  de  Eenzhun  got-um  plenty  clothes; 

He  mak'-um  plenty  suits  wit'  skins, — no  holes. 

Even  Shing-oos,  dose  weasel,  Wah-boos,  dose  rabbit, 

Dey  got-um  better  luck — two  suits  every  year — 

Summer,  brown-yellow  suit;  winter,  w'ite  suit — 

No  got-um  holes. 

Wau-goosh  and  Nee-gig,  dose  fox  and  otter, 

S  hang-way-she,  dose  mink,  Ah-meek,  dose  beaver, 

Dey  get-um  plenty  clothes,  each  year  two  suits — 

Summer,  t'in  clothes;  winter,  t'ick  fur  clothes — 

No  got-um  holes. 

Ah-deek,  dose  caribou,  dose  deer,  and  moose, 

In  spring  dey  t'row  away  deir  horns ; 

In  summer  dey  get-um  nice  new  hat — 

No  got-um  holes. 

Me — I'm  big-smart  man,  smarter  dan  weasel, 

Smarter  dan  moose  and  fox  and  beaver — 

I  got-um  golden  medal  on  chest  from  big-knife  chief ; 

Me — I'm  only  got-um  one  suit  clothes 

In  two  year — no-good  clothes,  no-good  hats ! 

'Spector  Jone',  you  tell-um  our  big-knife  Grand  fader, 

so: 
"Yellow-Otter  no  got-um  plenty  good  clothes; 

No  got-um  silk-black  hat,  no  stove-pipes  hat; 

Him  got-um  plenty-much  holes  in  Washin'ton  pants." 


MEDALS  AND  HOLES  65 

Tell-um  holes  in  pants  now  big,  plenty-big — 
Bigger  dan  golden  medal  on  chest ! 

So  much — dat's  enough. 


How!  How! 
Kay-get !    Kay-get ! 
Ho!   Ho!   Ho! 


FIRE-BENDER  TALKS 
An  Indian  Council  Talk 

Fire-Bender  wants  talk-urn  now 
On  Treaty  of  E'ghteen  E'ghty-nine. 

Major  Rice,  de  gov'ment  man, 

Him  scratch  on  treaty,  so: 

"When  Eenzhun  give-um  up  hees  land, 

Wherever  Eenzhun  go  and  live, 

Den  Washington  mak'-it  good  for  him 

So  he  can  hunt  all-tarn'  lak  in  olden  tarn'." 

Comes  now  Minnesota  game-warden, 

Police  of  deer  and  moose  and  fishing; 

He  got-um  silver  star  on  chest, 

He  got-um  damn  big  mout'. 

He  tak'-um  on  jail  two  Eenzhun  boy 

She's  kill  wan  deer,  and  den  he  say : 

"  'Cheebway,  you  no  can  hunt-um  moose 

Or  deer  outside  de  hunting  season ; 

You  kill  dose  wash-kish,  dose  w'ite-tail  deer, 

In  summer,  you  pay-um  fifty  irons; 

Dat's  'gainst  de  big-knife's  law! 

In  Treaty  E'ghteen  E'ghty-nine 


66 


FIRE-BENDER  TALKS  67 

De  'Cheebway  scratch-um  'way  deir  hunting  rights." 
'Spector  Taylo',  you  be  smart  man, — 
You  t'ink  dat  Eenzhun  she's  damn- fool? 
You  t'ink  she's  scratch-um  'way  hees  grub! 
You  t'ink  she's  give-um  'way  hees  right  for  live! 

Ugh !  'Cheebway  no  can  live  except 

Wan  way:  on  grub  she's  in  de  water 

And  animal  she's  on  land. 

Keetch-ie  Ma-ni-do,  Big-Spirit, 

Mak'-it  so  de  w'ite  man  get-um  grub 

By  scratching  ground  wit'  crazy-stick  ; 

By  making  mud  laugh  up  wit'  plenty  corn; 

By  digging  hole  in  granite  rock 

And  taking  plenty  copper-iron 

Out  of  de  guts  of  ground. 

Same  God  He's  mak'-um  grub 

For  all  dose  big-knife  w'ite  man. 

He's  mak'-um  grub  for  Eenzhuns ; 

He's  mak'-um  for  Eenzhun  all  dose  t'ing 

She's  jump  in  water  and  on  de  land : 

He's  mak'-um  pickerel  and  w'itefish, 

O-gah,  dose  pike,  and  wee-bee-zheen, 

Dose  skipjacks  and  silver  tulibees; 

He's  mak'-um  sturgeon  and  mash-ke-non-zhay, 

And  all  dose  fish  she's  walking  in  de  lake. 

He's  mak'-um  deer  and  elk,  she's  running 

Wild  in  de  timber  and  big  mush-keeg ; 

He's  mak'-um  caribou  and  moose, 

She's  feed  in  de  lily  in  de  river. 

Ho!  same  big  ma-ni-do 


68  THE  BOX  OF  GOD 

He's  mak'-um  grub  for  big-knife  chil'en 
Mak'-um  grub  for  Eenzhun  chil'en. 

'Spector  Taylo',  you  ask-um  warden 

If  she's  forget-um  dose  olden  treaty, 

You  ask-um  if  w'ite  man  mak'-um  newer  treaty, 

Wit'  God — if  Big-Spirit  scratch  on  paper  so : 

"Only  de  w'ite  man,  beginning  now, 

Belongs  him  de  sea,  de  land,  de  sky, 

And  all  dose  fish  and  animal  and  bird 

She's  walk  in  de  water,  de  ground,  de  air." 

Mebbe — mebbe  dose  big-knife  warden 

She's  got-um  treaty-paper  lak*  dat!   Ho! 

Me — I  lak'  see — me — dose  paper ! 

So  much  I  say — no  more. 

Ho!  Ho! 
Kay-get! 


MAPLE-SUGAR  CHANT 
I 

H6-yo-ho-ho! yo-ho! 

Way-nah-bo-zhoo,  big  spirit  of  our  brother, 
Come  thou  and  bless  us,  for  the  maple  flows, 
And  the  Moon-of-Sugar-Making  is  upon  us. 
The  nights  are  white  with  frost;  the  days  are  yellow 
With  sunshine,  and  now  the  sap  of  the  maple  tree, 
Humming  the  sugar-song,  goes  up  the  stem 
With  dancing  feet.    The  gabbling  geese  come  tumbling 
Out  of  the  wind  and  into  the  wet  mush-keeg 
In  clattering  families ;  among  the  reeds 
The  fat  old  women-geese  go  chattering 
Of  winter-lands;  and  gathered  on  the  shore, 
Shouting  with  hearts  glad  to  be  home  again, 
The  old  men  strut  in  council,  and  flutter  and  snort. 
Ah-chee-dah-mo,  the  spluttering  tail-up  squirrel- 
Pokes  his  blue  whiskers  from  his  hole  in  the  oak, 
And  scurries  up  and  down  the  swaying  branches — 
He  runs  in  six  directions,  all  over  the  earth, 
Hurrying,  looking  everywhere  for  somebody, 
Something  he  cannot  find, — nor  does  he  know 
Why  the  green  wet  days  should  be  so  bitterly  sweet. 
Ho!  the  yellow  birch  throbs,  for  she  knows  the  pain 
of  life, 

69 


70  THE  BOX  OF  GOD 

Of  swelling  limbs  and  bursting  buds;  she  stands 
With  naked  arms  stretched  out  to  the  warm  gray  rains, 
With  hungry  arms  that  tremble  for  her  lover, 
For  See-gwun,  the  Maker-of -little-children,  who  comes 
With  soft  blue  feet  that  rustle  the  fallen  leaves! — 
Hear  thou  the  maple-water  dripping,  dripping, 
The  cool  sweet-water  dripping  upon  the  birchbark  I— 
Ho  !  the  Moon-of-Sugar-Making  is  upon  us ! 

H6-yo-ho-ho! yo-ho! 

Hear  thou  our  prayers,  O  Brother,  Way-nah-bo-zhoo ! — 
Hear,  thou  who  hast  made  the  flat  green  earth  for  us 
To  dance  upon,  who  dost  fold  us  in  thy  hands 
Tenderly  as  a  woman  holds  a  broken  bird 
In  winter,  thou  our  Brother  who  hast  hung  the  sun 
Upon  the  sky  to  give  us  warmth  and  life, 
And  the  wet  moon  to  make  us  cool  and  clean ; 
Hear,  thou  who  hast  made  the  hills  and  the  timber- 
beasts 

That  roam  them,  who  hast  made  the  sliding  rivers 
And  silver  fish  that  shiver  in  the  pools — 
That  there  might  be  wild  meat  for  empty  bellies ; 
Hear,  thou  who  hast  made  cold  rapids  in  the  canyons, 
Wild  waterfalls,  and  springs  in  the  cool  green  hollows — 
That  there  might  be  sweet  water  for  parching  tongues ; 
Hear,  thou  who  hast  given  us  thy  mother,  All-Mother 

Earth, 

That  she  might  feed  her  children  from  her  bosom — 
Ah-yee !    Way-nah-bo-zhoo,  come  thou  on  this  night 
With  blessings  as  the  maple-water  flows ; 
Make  thou  a  song  to  our  heavy-breasted  mother, 


MAPLE-SUGAR  CHANT  71 

And  pray  thou  that  her  children  may  not  hunger, 
For  now  is  the  night  for  maple-sugar  feasting. 

H6-yo-ho-ho ! yo-ho ! 

From  the  long  cold  of  winter  moons,  our  eyes 

Are  deep,  our  hands  like  the  bundled  veins  and  talons 

Of  buzzard  birds.     Before  the  winter-winds 

The  moose  have  run  to  other  lands  for  feeding; 

The  rabbits  have  vanished  as  the  snow — a  plague 

Left  a  strange  red  sickness  in  their  withered  mouths. 

Even  old  Gahg,  the  clumsy  porcupine, 

No  longer  finds  his  way  to  our  roasting-pots, — 

We  boil  his  yellow  bone-ribs  many  times — 

Ugh!  our  teeth  grow  soft  without  strong  meat  to  eat. 

Ho !  Way-nah-bo-zhoo,  hear  thou  our  many  tears 

Dropping  among  the  dead  leaves  of  winter; 

Pray  thou,  and  ask  our  grandmother,  Waking-Earth, 

To  take  us  in  her  arms,  to  make  us  warm 

With  food,  to  hold  us  safe  upon  her  bosom. 

Our  mouths  go  searching  for  her  mighty  breasts, 

Where  the  maple-milk  conies  flowing  from  the  trees, — 

Ah-yee!  Brother,  pray  thou  now  the  Mother-One 

To  give  us  freely  of  her  sugar-sap, 

The  good  sweet  water  of  her  bursting  breasts- 

For  the  Moon-of- Sugar-Making  is  upon  us! 

H6-yo-ho-ho! yo-ho! 


II 


And  if  the  sap  flows  thin  with  water,  our  hearts 

Will  hold  no  bitterness;  for  we  shall  know 

That  long  ago  in  thy  wisdom  thou  didst  decree 

That  our  mother's  milk  might  never  be  too  thick — 

Fearing  that  we  should  gather  plenty  sugar 

With  little  labor  and  soon  grow  sick  with  food 

And  slow  to  move  our  legs,  like  glutted  bear — 

Ho !  we  are  a  faithful  children  of  the  soil ; 

We  toil  with  eager  hearts  and  patient  hands. 

And  if  our  birchen  baskets  crack  and  leak 

The  gathered  sap,  our  tongues  will  speak  no  evil; 

We  know  that  thou,  our  Brother,  in  thy  love 

For  all  the  Otter-tails,  didst  whip  the  growing 

Birch  tree  until  the  bark  was  cracked  and  cut 

With  round  black  stripes, — that  our  birchen  pails  might 

leak 

The  golden  sap,  that  thus  all  Indian  children, 
Laboring  long  with  many  steps,  might  never 
Grow  soft  and  fat  with  idling  in  the  bush. 
Ho !  we  are  a  faithful  children  of  the  soil ; 
We  toil  with  eager  hearts  and  patient  backs. 

Hi!  Way-nah-bo-zhoo !  Hear  thou,  O  mighty  one, 
Who  dost  fold  us  in  his  tender  hands  as  a  woman 
Holding  a  broken  bird  in  the  winter-wind, 

72 


MAPLE-SUGAR  CHANT  73 

Come  thou  and  bless  us  on  this  night  of  feasting ; 

Pray  thou  our  mother  to  take  us  in  her  arms, 

To  hold  us  warm  upon  her  great  brown  bosom, 

To  give  us  freely  of  her  maple-water, 

The  good  sweet  water  of  her  swelling  breasts. 

And  if  we  labor  long,  our  lips  will  speak 

No  bitterness,  for  our  arms  are  strong  for  hauling, 

Eager  for  many  buckets  of  sweet  sap, 

For  sirup  dancing  its  bubbles  up  and  down 

In  the  kettles,  to  the  bubble-dancing  song. 

Ho !  for  we  are  a  faithful  children  of  the  soil ; 

We  toil  with  trusting  hearts  and  patient  ringers — 

And  now  is  the  Moon-of-Maple-Sugar-Making ! 

H6-yo-ho-ho ! yo-ho! 


APPENDIX 

The  following  supplementary  notes  concerning  the 
poems  of  Indian  theme  in  Part  III,  "RED  GODS/'  may 
prove  helpful  to  the  reader  who  is  unfamiliar  with 
the  American  Indian  by  providing  for  the  poems  a 
background  of  Indian  legends,  customs,  and  traditions. 


RED  GODS 

Although  the  life  of  the  North  American  Indian  is 
rich  with  poetic  concepts,  he  has  no  special  form  of 
expression  called  poetry.  His  poetic  thought  may  be 
discovered  in  his  songs,  his  rituals,  and  his  ceremonies, 
occasionally  as  a  minor  element  in  a  feast  or  a  chant, 
but  generally  as  a  vital  part  of  the  ceremony,  suffusing 
it  with  color.  Poetic  beauty,  sometimes  simple  and 
stark  but  very  real,  enfolds  all  his  modes  of  expression, 
his  songs  and  dances,  his  religious  practices,  his  feasts 
and  chants,  his  superstitions  and  folklore  and  legends. 
In  a  sense  his  poetry  is  implied,  rather  than  expressed. 

Obviously,  a  literal  translation  or  a  transcription  of 
an  Indian  song  or  ceremony  is  inadequate.  Few  words 
may  be  uttered  in  the  course  of  a  medicine-dance  lasting 
an  hour ;  nevertheless,  the  event  will  be  highly  signifi 
cant  to  those  who  comprehend  the  philosophy,  the 
religion,  and  the  psychology  of  the  Indian,  the  spirit  of 
his  music,  of  his  symbols,  of  his  pantomime  and  his 
dancing. 

I  wish  to  emphasize  the  fact,  therefore,  that  the  poems 
in  Part  III,  "RED  GODS/'  are  not  translations  or  tran 
scriptions;  they  are  in  no  sense  derivative.  They  are 
original  poems  in  which  I  have  sought  to  capture  and 
to  communicate  something  of  the  poetic  beauty  and  the 
spiritual  significance  of  Indian  ceremonies — war  dances, 

77 


78  BOX  OF  GOD 

lullabies,  council-talks,  and  seasonal  chants — as  they  are 
revealed  to  one  whose  kinship  with  the  Indian,  and 
whose  experience  with  Indian  life  in  its  setting  of 
mountain  and  forest,  make  him  peculiarly  responsive 
to  Indian  thought  and  feeling.  I  have  not  hesitated  to 
depart  greatly  from  the  original  ceremonies  whenever 
it  became  necessary  to  set  out  the  myth,  the  tradition, 
or  the  practice  that  gives  point  and  poignance  to  a  song. 
I  have  endeavored  steadily,  however,  to  keep  true  to 
the  peculiarities  of  Indian  idiom,  expression,  and 
philosophy,  to  the  psychology  of  the  Indian,  and  to 
his  peculiar  outlook  upon  life,  and  true  to  the  genuine 
Indian  type  of  to-day  and  of  the  past  fifty  years. 


THUNDERDRUMS 

Page  53 

The  ceremony  upon  which  the  poem,  "Thunder- 
drums,"  is  based  illustrates  the  futility  of  translation. 
The  poem  is  a  broad  interpretation  of  a  war -medicine 
dance  that  was  performed  often  in  the  old  Indian 
fighting  days  by  the  Chippewas  as  a  part  of  their 
preparations  for  war  with  the  Sioux,  their  bitter 
enemies.  This  ancient  war-dance  has  been  preserved 
by  some  of  the  Chippewas  and  is  performed  occasionally 
by  the  Red  Lake  Chippewas  and  other  equally  remote 
Indians,  even  in  these  modern  peaceful  days. 

While  the  Chippewa  chiefs  and  braves  danced  in  the 
ring,  during  the  war-dance,  the  medicine-men  made 
war-medicine;  by  means  of  their  chants  and  strong 
medicines  they  would  render  the  warriors  immune  from 
injury  and  death;  they  would  invoke  the  aid  of  the 
powerful  spirits  and  gods,  especially  of  the  Thunder- 
bird  ;  and  thus  they  would  strengthen  the  righting  hearts 
of  the  braves  for  fearless  struggles  and  for  heroic 
deeds. 

A  war-dance  may  continue  for  hours;  yet  in  the 
entire  period  no  specific  words  may  be  uttered,  with 
the  exception  of  a  defiant  war-whoop,  or  an  exultant 
"Ah-hah-hay!"  or  "Hah-yah-ah-hay !",  or  a  blood 
curdling  shout.  Yet  consider  all  that  transpires :  hours 
of  dancing,  posturing,  and  pantomime;  meaningful 

79 


8o  BOX  OF  GOD 

singing  and  drumming,  varying  in  spirit  and  purpose 
from  time  to  time;  medicine-making  and  invocations 
to  the  gods, — all  of  which  is  so  significant  and  real  to 
the  warriors  in  the  dancing-ring  that  they  become  trans 
ported  and  frenzied  in  their  will  for  battle. 

Occasionally  in  the  course  of  a  dance,  especially  in 
the  war-dance,  an  individual  in  the  group  may  do  a 
sort  of  solo  dance.  By  means  of  gesture  and  posture, 
impersonation,  and  pantomime,  he  may  enact  a  dramatic 
scene ;  he  may  tell  the  story  of  a  former  battle  in  which 
he  killed  an  enemy  in  a  hand  to  hand  struggle ;  he  may 
portray  his  method  of  scouting,  or  his  power  as  a  war 
rior  ;  he  may  show  how  he  will  track,  attack,  and  destroy 
his  enemies ;  he  may  impersonate  animals  and  wounded 
men,  and  enact  a  score  of  dramatic  incidents  relevant  to 
the  ceremony.  The  dance  pantomime  is  the  root  of 
Indian  drama,  the  only  form  of  drama  known  to  the 
early  American  Indians,  with  the  exception  of  certain 
seasonal  dances  and  religious  ceremonies — and  these 
are  simply  elaborations  of  the  more  common  dance 
pantomimes.  In  "Thunderdrums" — Sections  II-V, 
"Double-Bear  Dances/*  "Jumping-River  Dances," 
"Ghost-Wolf  Dances,"  and  "Iron-Wind  Dances"— I 
have  sought  to  capture  the  spirit  of  four  solo  dances  or 
pantomimes  typical  of  many  others  in  the  old  war- 
medicine  ceremonies. 

The  Thunderbird,  to  which  many  references  are  made 
in  the  poem,  is  one  of  the  most  powerful  of  the 
spirits,  a  force  in  the  lives  of  most  Chippewas  and 
in  the  conjurings  of  the  medicine  men.  The  Thunder- 
bird  comes  to  the  world  in  electrical  storms ;  he  shows 


APPENDIX  81 

himself  when  the  black  clouds  gather  on  the  horizon, 
when  the  sky  rumbles  with  thunder,  and  when  the  fiery 
bolts  and  the  jagged  lightnings  flash  overhead. 

The  words  "Cut-throat"  and  "Pucker-skin"  are  terms 
used  occasionally  to  characterize  respectively  the  Sioux 
and  the  Chippewa.  The  meaning  of  the  other  Chippewa 
words  and  phrases  in  this  poem  and  in  the  remaining 
poems  in  the  group  may  be  gathered  from  their  context ; 
whenever  an  Indian  word  is  used,  its  equivalent  in 
English  may  be  found  generally  in  the  same  line.  The 
spelling,  syllabification,  and  the  marks  of  emphasis 
convey  the  accurate  pronunciation  of  all  the  Indian 
words. 

The  expressions,  Ho!  Ho!,  Ah-hah-hdy ! ,  Hdh-yah- 
ah-hdy,  and  Wuh!  are  typical  Chippewa  explosives  and 
ejaculations  of  approval  by  the  audience. 


INDIAN  SLEEP-SONG 
Page  59 

In  the  lodges  of  the  more  remote  and  less  civilized 
Chippewas  one  may  still  see  Indian  cradle-boards,  and 
hear  old  Indian  lullabies.  The  word  cradle-board  sug 
gests  the  purpose  of  the  tik-in-ah-gun  as  it  is  called; 
it  is  a  basswood  board  on  which  the  Indian  baby  is 
bound  with  beaded  cloth  and  buckskin,  and  it  serves 
as  a  carrying-board  and  a  cradle.  When  the  mother 
wishes  her  baby  to  fall  asleep,  she  improvises  a  ham 
mock  from  blankets  swung  between  two  lodge-poles, 
places  in  it  the  cradle-board  to  which  the  baby  is  lashed, 
and  sings  while  she  swings  the  hammock  and  board  to 
and  fro. 

The  lullabies  of  the  Indian  mother  are  in  spirit  much 
like  those  of  the  white  woman,  save  that  they  possess 
a  plaintive  minor  note,  and  contain  very  few  words — 
other  than  the  syllables  "We-we,  we-we,"  or  "Way- 
way,  way-way."  In  "Indian  Sleep-Song"  I  endeavored 
to  catch  the  spirit  of  a  typical  Indian  lullaby,  and  the 
rhythm  of  a  swinging  cradle-board. 


82 


TO  A  DEAD  PEMBINA  WARRIOR 

Page  61 

Among  some  of  the  tribes  it  was  the  custom  to  dispose 
of  the  dead  by  placing  them  in  trees,  sometimes  for  a 
few  months  until  the  ground  thawed  sufficiently  for  the 
digging  of  graves,  and  sometimes  permanently.  In  the 
tree-burial  practice,  the  dead  Indian  was  wrapped  about 
with  an  inner  layer  of  blankets  and  an  outer  layer  of 
birchbark  which  was  sewn  with  fibers  or  buckskin  and 
sealed  with  pitch ;  the  birchbark  coffin  was  then  placed 
on  a  scaffold  in  the  crotch  of  a  tree. 

"To  a  Dead  Pembina  Warrior"  is  not  an  Indian 
song  or  chant,  but  a  poem  written  to  an  Indian  chief 
who  was  killed  by  his  enemies  in  hostile  territory,  and 
who,  in  compliance  with  his  last  request,  was  given  a 
tree-burial. 


83 


MEDALS  AND  HOLES 

FIRE-BENDER  TALKS 
Page  66 

The  character  of  the  Indian  is  revealed  in  his  chants 
and  legends  and  rites,  but  nowhere  more  peculiarly  than 
in  his  council  oratory.  Therefore,  in  order  to  present 
various  phases  of  the  Indian  that  do  not  occur  in  his 
songs,  I  have  included  in  this  group  of  chants  these 
two  council-talks.  They  are  not  translations,  but 
original  poems  that  typify  Indian  complaints  and 
grievances  as  they  find  expression  in  councils,  and  that 
suggest  certain  mental  and  emotional  phases  of  the 
Indian. 

For  obvious  reasons  the  two  poems  were  written  in 
the  broken  pidgin-English  dialect  that  a  not  too  civilized 
mixed-blood  interpreter  would  use,  rather  than  in  the 
smooth  and  rhetorically  precise  language  of  the  white 
man.  With  few  exceptions  official  interpreters  who 
have  translated  addresses  made  in  government  councils, 
historians  who  have  recorded  some  of  the  famous  Indian 
orations,  and  novelists  and  playwrights  who  have  sought 
to  create  the  beauty  of  Indian  speech,  have  lost  the 
flavor  and  the  spirit  of  genuine  Indian  oratory.  In 
their  eagerness  to  intensify  the  romantic  element  and 
to  make  the  speech  of  the  Indian  more  easily  compre- 

84 


APPENDIX  85 

bended  by  the  white  man  through  the  use  of  rhetorical 
devices  peculiar  to  the  white  man  rather  than  to  the 
Indian,  they  have  made  his  utterances  so  smooth,  suave, 
and  rhetorically  pretty,  and  so  impressive  with  the 
grand  manner  and  the  studied  theatrical  attitude,  that 
the  few  examples  of  Indian  oratory  in  the  English 
language  are  more  white  man  than  Indian.  The  Indian 
has  been  made  too  completely  ideal  and  romantic;  the 
poetry  of  his  speech,  its  naivete  and  simplicity,  its 
humor  both  broad  and  subtle,  its  tragedy  and  elemental 
power,  and  its  crude  wild  beauty — these  have  been 
smothered  and  lost  in  rhetorical  elegance. 

As  a  result,  notwithstanding  four  hundred  years  of 
contact  with  the  red  man,  the  American  is  for  the  most 
part  unaware  of  the  significant  primitive  poetry  of 
Indian  expression.  At  best  the  examples  of  the  ora 
tory  of  the  Indian  are  few ;  and  the  few  too  often  have 
lost  the  genuine  Indian  spirit.  Moved,  therefore,  by  a 
desire  to  preserve  and  to  communicate  the  less  romantic, 
but  perhaps  more  vital  phases  of  his  speech,  I  offer 
these  two  council-talks  with  the  hope  that  their  loss  in 
fluency,  polish,  and  artistry  due  to  the  difficult  broken 
dialect  in  which  they  are  written,  may  be  offset  by 
their  gain  in  spontaneity  and  naturalness,  in  ruggedness 
and  primitive  power,  and  in  the  stark  simple  beauty  of 
truth. 

The  frequent  references  to  "the  golden  medal"  in 
"Medals  and  Holes"  goes  back  to  the  days  when  the 
Keetch-ie  O-gi-ma,  the  "Big  Chief ",— of  the  white  man, 
— the  President,  seeking  to  win  the  friendship  and  the 
support  of  influential  chiefs,  frequently  awarded  them 


86  BOX  OF  GOD 

medals.  Indians  have  always  been  childlike  in  their 
love  of  honors  and  ornaments ;  the  medals  presented  by 
the  government  were  therefore  greatly  prized  by  them, 
especially  if  the  decorations  were  large  and  shiny  and 
impressive.  In  the  course  of  a  friendly  visit  with  an 
old  chief,  he  may  show  me  his  most  precious  possessions, 
his  ceremonial  garb  and  his  relics;  invariably  he  re 
serves  his  medal  for  the  last  great  moment  and  presents 
it  proudly  as  his  most  telling  exhibit. 

The  expressions,  Ho!  Ho!  and  How!  How!  mean 
broadly  "Good !  Good !",  and  they  have  the  same  signifi 
cance  as  the  applause  of  audiences  of  white  men. 
Kay-get!  Kay-get!  is  a  vehement  ejaculation  of  ap 
proval  common  among  the  Chippewas,  in  one  sense  like 
the  white  man's  exclamation,  "You're  right!  You're 
right!" 


MAPLE-SUGAR  CHANT 
Page  69 

The  Indian  is  vitally  dependent  upon  nature,  for  his 
life  touches  the  wilderness  at  every  point.  His  so- 
called  pagan  religion  is  based  entirely  upon  a  spiritual 
conception  of  nature  in  her  manifold  forms  and  moods. 
Living  as  he  does,  therefore,  in  constant  communion 
with  the  wilderness — the  source  of  his  religious  inspira 
tion — most  of  his  acts,  and  his  rites  and  dances  and 
songs  possess  a  profound  spiritual  note,  a  high  spiritual 
color.  Whenever  an  Indian  goes  hunting  and  kills 
a  bear,  he  offers  up  a  prayer  to  the  spirit  who  is  known 
as  the  Chief-of-the-Bears ;  he  explains  the  necessity 
that  drove  him  to  kill  one  of  the  Bear-Chief's  subjects, 
he  expresses  his  sorrow,  and  he  thanks  the  Ruler-of- 
the-Bears  for  permission  to  take  one  of  his  children. 
If  the  sky  is  ominous  with  low  black  clouds  and  sud 
den  lightnings,  and  the  pines  bend  and  groan  with 
storm-winds,  the  Thunderbird-spirit  is  coming;  and 
perforce  the  devout  Indian  will  toss  a  handful  of  tobacco 
on  the  fire  as  a  peace  offering  to  the  Thunderbird  and 
make  a  prayer  to  placate  him.  If  the  spirit-helper  of 
an  Indian  lives  in  the  Norway  pine-tree,  the  Norway 
pine  is  "good  medicine" ;  and  whenever  he  encounters  a 
particularly  beautiful  pine,  he  will  stop  to  commune 
with  it.  In  autumn  the  tribe  may  hold  a  great  feast, 

87 


88  THE  BOX  OF  GOD 

thank  the  Big-Spirit  for  the  rich  harvest,  and  ask  him 
to  protect  the  several  families  in  the  band  through  the 
winter  from  sickness  and  poverty  and  starvation.  In 
the  spring  the  band  may  hold  a  feast-dance  in  honor  of 
the  Big-Spirit,  thanking  him  for  his  help  through  the 
long  cold  months,  and  asking  him  to  make  a  good  sum 
mer,  bountiful  with  fish  and  game  and  fruit  and  wild 
rice.  Thus  a  very  deep  and  very  real  spiritual  feeling 
marks  many  of  the  simple  daily  acts  and  most  of  the 
tribal  ceremonies  of  these  primitive  people,  who,  by  the 
unthinking  few  of  an  alien  race,  are  erroneously 
termed  pagans. 

"Maple-Sugar  Chant"  is  based  on  a  seasonal  cere 
mony  that  illustrates  clearly  the  spiritual  significance 
of  Indian  ceremonies.  When  the  first  warm  days  and 
frosty  nights  of  the  spring-thaws  arrive,  the  Indians 
pack  their  kettles,  buckets,  and  household  goods  and 
move  to  the  maple-sugar  bush.  There  they  build  their 
weeg-i-wams,  or  lodges,  and  prepare  to  make  the  yearly 
supply  of  maple-sugar. 

Before  they  embark  on  the  business  of  making 
sugar,  however,  a  feast  must  be  given  to  Mother  Earth, 
and  to  Way-nah-bo-zhoo,  a  powerful  legendary  char 
acter  regarded  by  the  Chippewas  as  a  guardian  spirit, 
as  a  kind  of  big  brother  of  all  the  Chippewa  Indians. 
Several  very  old  women  first  gather  a  few  buckets  of 
the  early  run  of  maple-sap — and  they  must  avoid  touch 
ing  or  tasting  the  sap.  When  the  fluid  has  been  boiled 
down,  the  sugar  is  set  aside  for  the  ceremony  to  be  held 
later  in  the  day.  In  the  evening,  around  the  huge  fire, 
a  feast  is  spread  for  all  the  families  in  the  camp.  One 


APPENDIX  89 

place  is  left  vacant;  a  platter  of  the  sugar  especially 
prepared  by  the  old  women  is  set  at  that  place  for 
Way-nah-bo-zhoo  whose  spirit  will  come  out  of  the 
night  during  the  ceremony,  to  join  in  the  feast,  to  eat 
the  maple-sugar  prepared  for  him,  and  to  bless  the  tribe 
with  a  good  sugar  season,  with  a  great  run  of  rich  and 
plentiful  sap.  "Maple-Sugar  Chant"  is  an  interpreta 
tion  of  the  spirit  of  this  ceremony — not  of  the  specific 
chants  and  utterances,  for  these  are  few  and  unimpor 
tant  in  themselves — but  rather  of  the  spiritual  signifi 
cance  of  this  seasonal  feast. 

THE  END 


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(American  and  English  1580-1920) 

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,  This  edition  includes  the  "new"  poets  such  as 
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"A  collection  so  complete  and  distinguished  that  it  is 
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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


OCT  16  1947 


0  21-100m-12,'46(A2012sl6)4120 


01     IrOCL 


54* 


Cct.8T43 


MAR   30 


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520:528 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


